Captivus
by Noonz
Summary: Princess Bubblegum, a young monarch is thrown into captivity when a vampire legion begins capturing neighbouring territories - what ensues is her struggle and survival in the odd circumstances she is put into... AND THERE'S MARCELINE DUH.


Author Note: I know I have't published anything in a while and I make no promises, but I would appreciate it ever so much if (y'all would like to see this continued) - you guys would drop a review! Hope you're all well & still shipping the ultimate AT ship x

Chapter 1: Chained

"Move!" The order is screeched with terrible velocity and pointless anger into the ears of the fragile body scrawled up against a wall of debris. Grey goliathan patches of soot and dirt streak the remains of what was once a grand, ball dress – it is loosely draped over the body trembling beneath it, only if not forcefully, tight about her waist and tied in thick smocking at her chest. She shakes the soft, but now rumpled tresses of bouncing pink hair away from her face, that too scarred in various places or bruised in others, and her arms push upwards and her feet find comfort in standing on still ground for once in those two weeks.

It is not that her feet were jellied and unable to help her procure steps forward in a human manner, but for the fact that the ground, and all of the Land of Ooo itself was trembling – not with earthquake but with the dreaded onslaught of the fifteen-foot demonic forms of ravaging, blood thirsty vampires. So, when under the thundering palpitations of rocking earth and when one is forced to run, pounce and any other form of fleeing from being drained of blood and destroyed in the most wretched of manners by the psychopathic assault of the first line attackers in the vampire army – still ground is a blessing: much appreciated.

Her dress tattered in many places, at least does the decency of covering enough of her pinkish skin, something her captors disliked as being pathetic and sugary in all meaning of weakness. She heaves a thick sigh as her neck bends up, slowly, to face the prosecutor.

"Is that a sigh, you prissy wretch?"

The demand should have been threatening, but was not, since her prosecutor is a portly goblin about a foot below her in height. That and the light squeak at the end of each word he speaks. His features include shouldering her at the thighs and preaching how honorable his masters are for having spared her, other than that his most notable characteristics would be a face resembling that of a squashed vegetable and pudgy hands – the ones she'd seen time and time again lock and unlock the gritty, cage bars in front of her.

"I'm asking you something…", the goblin mutters under his breath, taking short steps into the cage as he holds out the expected, rusted silver chains the lady had faced for multiple intervals. "The master awaits you as soon as you're ready," a deep, smirk appears at his rotting, filthy teeth, "_princess_". As if the mere notion, that another so-called pleasantry: such as a visit to the demonic presence holding her captive, somehow pleased him. It's all the more accentuated by the fact that he seems to impose on her a form of royal etiquette and respect, when clearly, laying about in the rotting remains of a previous prisoner, does no such justice to being addressed with such a term. Mockery is cruel, especially when the circumstances are unavoidable and so real.

The lady silently brings her hands forward, palms up, freely providing the waiting chains an area to clasp around her once pink wrists. They click into place in a tight sickening, scrunch as morsels of her flesh embed into the gunky metal. She winces slightly; the worn out skin beginning to seep little driblets of pure, red blood. It was a necessary practice, as the goblin had told her at the beginning – something to keep the master on focus. Something she hadn't comprehended at first, but soon became acquainted with. Much like the walls they had begun to trudge past, as the goblin made a thorough job of tugging the chains a little harder each time, effectively cutting deeper into her skin, occasionally glancing back to see the tense bridge at her eyebrows as she winced each time. Little puddles of her blood begin to form a mesh with the other patches of dry blood and other unidentifiable liquids on the stone flooring and she does not resist the force being applied on her, tilting her head as much as the simultaneous pulls allowed, she watches the cemented structure beside her.

Her eyes trail over the red, slightly cracked brick walls, as she waits for the sudden shift in world. And, as expected, a deep pillar rises as an end to the noxious land of cages and prisons behind her. Beyond the pillar, her eyes begin to readjust to sudden burst of light, even if she had seen the same display of prosaic patterning a total of five times. Outside the illusion of an ending to a prisoner's dwelling, the walls are patterned in thick floral designs carved deep into what appears to be marble and painted a startling crisp gold, as curves of design interlock with each other, spiraling off further into the passageway, embroidering themselves around large, obnoxious portraits and finding an end at the hinges of room doors whilst others ran deep up the staircase to continue the dance of golden mosaic on the upper floor.

"Change".

The order is simple and the lady complies, as her chains are unlocked and the door to the room before her is opened. The only reason that a door would open for her: being not as courtesy of a bad goblin gone good, but so that the 'prissy wretch' did not bloody the door handles.

As soon as she steps in, the door is firmly shut behind her, followed by an uttering of "30 minutes". What surrounds her is a litter of sinks, a newly hung dress and finally a lengthy mirror. She turns slowly, what remains of her clothing brushing against the polished, shiny tiles and faces her reflection. What looks back at her is a young lady, skin a pink tint but for the deathly pale about her ankles, wrists and face. A darker shade of pink swathes over her face and around her hip as the hair slightly shifts weight along with her movement. Blackened circles have slithered in crescents past her eyes, closely following the scars tattooed in and out of her arms. A faint smile trembles at her chapped lips. _Well then, Princess, get to it. _ Her own thoughts seem to laugh at her title, but she follows suit. Her arms outstretch to grab the sponge beside one of the sinks and as she carefully removes the petty adornment that passes as being named as clothing, soap is lathered all over her body, her face washed of the darkened paint of dirt across it, hair rinsed – combed and the dress hurriedly worn. She ties the thick sashes behind her waste, her chest humbly showing from the mesh of a corset she wears and the soft underskirt swishes in ticklish fumbles around her thighs and feet.

If not for the scars and the visible sullen façade imprinted on her face, her appearance truly seemed of the days she'd spent idly dressing up as a child, impersonating her mother as Queen of the Land of Ooo. Her thoughts as a child had vivid imagination, and often if she could not 'retrieve' any cosmetics, a few scratches of colored pencil on her face were enough to make her mind's eye see pancakes of make-up on her face. She would also imagine the huge grin her parents would grant her with, as she burst into halls laughing and running from the pack of maids rushing after her with streaks of blue and black hastily plastered onto their faces. Her mind now, though, remains empty, hollow, blank. As if brainwashed from the days she'd spend sitting in silence, alone with death in every corner of her mind, left to either recover, or suffer from the losses of her entire life and the trauma she now faced with the 'master'.

Raising now cleansed knuckles, she raps twice on the door. A brief click is heard as the portal swings ajar and the dull glint of rusty brown chains await her wrists, yet again.

Portrait after portrait passes in slow, shredded colours across her vision, depicting the same arrogant face of the 'master' over and over; its lips in a taut straight line carefully concealing the canines that were sure to extend deep and malevolently, were they not forcefully closed shut in order for a "noble" painting to be done. At present, her eyes can only wish to form sharp daggers in its vision and fling them at the ever watching eyes of the egoistic paintings that follow her, as she straggles behind the goblin, slowly losing her vision while the inner liquid continues to drain from her wrists lightly, trailing across her palms and pooling as her cupped hands don't let the blood fall to the floor.

"That's right, now apply it," the goblin had stopped walking, impatiently he eyes the basin of her hands.

His bulbous hands cup together in an imitation of what she is to do, he'd done it many times before and yet, as stodgy as his life as a goblin must be: this seemed to be one of his pleasures. Acting out the preparation for victims. The empty cup of the goblins wrinkled fingers, pancake in one quick and exaggerated movement to his chest.

Letting the liquid dribble down her arms as she does so, the lady splashes the red substance onto her chest, where it floods and as dictated by the "intricate" method in the torture of humans; it bloodies only but her chest and the lace dressing there. Not a drop splatters anywhere else and concurrently, she feels the cold but slightly warm - from her own body heat- pernicious teeth of chains being taken off her wrists.

The empty spots where his eyebrows may have been quirk, and a satisfied grin plasters against the noxious, crooked teeth the goblin has archived for special occasions – much like these. "He'll be waiting inside," he stifles what appears to be a giggle, "have a good time".

"Yes". The lady says, and shut up, she doesn't add. Silently, she prays that whatever god that created the stunt, toothy creature, would grace him with a quick departure from the world of the living. But, she prays too that this time round her "meeting" with the master would be less straining, frustrating – painful. Her thoughts had become naught but shrunken apogees of a once strong-willed lady, the will hadn't altogether vanished, but after seminars with the master and the ever-dreaded abode of the steel bars of a prison – not only was her mind slowly retracting into an inescapable abyss of vacuity but any semblance of who she was as well. As if the purpose of all that once was had been non-existent and only this desultory extraction of blood on solid metal and a supposed cleanliness to please an obeisant ceremony – as if that was all that existed, when one questioned the implausibly ridiculous concept of the princess' life.

Her hands lay limply at her sides, as the double doors they'd stopped at, those too carved with the repulsive features of a maniacal army captain, open with a push of the goblin's hands. "Move," he whispers, as she walks in and the doors shut behind her.

She feels a soft whoosh of air push past her as the doors click into the door frame of the room and the familiar stench of strong musk forces its way through her nostrils, nearly suffocating as it collides and infects the fresh air she was breathing moments before. She does not look up, but instead, keeps her eyes focused on the tiles intersecting at her feet. The room around her is vast; it spaces out over the expanse of two master bedrooms and is occupied by two leather couches on either side of the walls, a velvet armchair against the only window in the room and a blazing white, round carpet as the locus for the entire area. The periphery of the room is lined with silk drapes, fastened in an unusual fashion to the middle of the walls, but the most peculiar deco item in the room is the dark, round carpet that is nailed to the ceiling. Below it the white carpet sparkles in contrast and yet, one can clearly see the rusting nails that hold the pointless material in place, where only a dog may lay were its world to literally turn upside down.

The one object, that stands out the most though, is the man standing right above the white carpet. He turns slowly to face the lady and a satisfied grin begins to swim across his face.

"I see you've made it," he states, a deep chuckle following as he begins to slick the oil of his hair backward over and over. "I was beginning to worry".

The lady carefully looks up and spots the source of the voice she'd expected a few feet away from her. He grins again -widely pronouncing hook shaped- fangs and a whip of shivers laces around her spine. She doesn't reply to his words, even the idea that he would express false concern and imply that she had a choice of being late, it made her nauseous. Broilers of blood begin to surge at her temples as a sudden coat of fear wraps around her mind, a stoic, darkness clouds her eyes and she can feel the strength in her body fading away in adagio. She did not want to feel this at all and yet, here she was, his victim once more.

"Will you come here, darling?" He drags out the patronymic title, every letter accentuated the way it's supposed to sound: as if he had to strain himself to speak the words clearly. "You can comply to my request or we can have those two," he motions to the guards that stood silently so long on either side of the room, "help you listen". He straightens out the lining of his waistcoat. "Like last time".

"No". It is not that the lady is an utterly recalcitrant child, rejecting the order of her parents, but that she has nothing more to say. Not anything that can change her situation, not anything that can take her away from a world of shackles and demons. Only some pathetic, stultified hope that resides in her uttering an ignored two letter word.

"This is why we chain you, princess." The vampire brings out a long tongue to lick around his lips, as he adds, "it's appealing to see and has positive effects on your urge to resist". His eyes a complete black, devoid of irises, suddenly tense and his eyebrows shoot down in fury as an order is sent.

The cloth around her elbows is immediately clenched in the hands of two guards, both of them obviously vampires as their grips only increase in tightness as she struggles against the sudden blockage to the blood flowing through her arms. A deluge of blood begins to spill from her wrists as the wounds that had almost closed, reopen and this time, the liquid is allowed to flow onto the cream tiled floor and lead a running path towards the center of the room. The vampires beside her, release almost guttural growls as the scent begins to unravel their desire to drink, but they cannot, there master however: can. And he does not relinquish his authority to do so. He moves 4 feet forward in one step, after all an army general did have agility and his hand reaches out, greedy, hedonistic and ready, to grasp the shoulders of the girl, to drag her to the white carpet and to drain her till it has turned the same rotting colour of the carpet plastered on the ceiling above from their "session" last week. His nails touch the surface of her neck's skin and he scrapes at it harshly, using another hand to drag away the locks of pink hair that had covered his target point so well. Two deep scars show at the side of the lady's neck and her eyes begin to water as he drags two nails across them, scraping off the net of platelets embedded there. She would have to feel the plunge of knives into her neck yet again, to know, that there was nothing more to her soul than to be abused as the play toy of a mad, raving monster. Nails of devilish pain startle her body as the pressure at her elbows is now also at her hip as they prepare to drag her to the carpet, against the conniption swelling in her body. She wants to cry, yell, destroy – anything to stop the potent torture.

_To die._ She silently muses as she realizes the last moment of silence is at large, before her screams will begin to reverberate around the room.

A click resounds instead of her screams; the double doors open up and screech a little as they tensely slide on the tiled floor – an architect's mistake no doubt. "Ahem". A goblin dressed in a bow tie and gloves walks in, a little more civilized compared to the rags draped around the prison guard goblin. His ears perk up a little, as he finds the target of his destination and he wastes no time in rolling out a slightly crumpled paper. He extends it to one of the guards, bowing deeply to the master before taking a step backward and waiting at the doors.

"I am messenger of Lord Abadeer," he clears his throat again, "your guard holds the letter given by his lordship to you, Captain of the first flank conquerors, requesting that the princess of the Candy Kingdom be relocated to his quarters. And that-"

"Yes," the enervated captain's voice growls deeply, making the goblin that had unconsciously closed his eyes as he recited, jump a little. "I have a letter, you do not have to speak its contents".

"Then, captain, I will now leave with the princess as the order has been given so," the goblin asks more than says, his head nodding forward as if he awaited approval. It had occurred to him that some form of egregious activity had been taking place since his feet had met quite the squelch of a puddle of blood. He straightens his bowtie, clearing his throat yet again, an uneasy glance occasionally flitting downwards.

The captain eyed the princess before him, his eyes growing a demonic red as his fangs began to retract and a fist crunches up so tightly on his right arm that he might as well have snapped his own bones. "I'll see you again, princess". The lady only twitches her eyebrows, an irate prayer had been answered and she says naught, but her thoughts only express regret - for were she to fall into worse affliction in the hands of a lord than a captain?


End file.
